


We Are Brockton

by TheSleepingKnight



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow, We Are Robin (Comics)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, One Shot, We Are Robin But It's In Brockton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25633009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight
Summary: Brockton fights back, with a little help from six birds.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	We Are Brockton

This is how it begins: A promise by candlelight. A whisper in the back alley. Would-be-muggers found with bruises and refusing to name their attackers. Mechanical eyes catching flashes of red, blurs of yellow, glimpses of green.

People begin talking _:_

_Have you seen him? I think it’s a she, actually._

_No way, Jane. It’s a he._

_Either way— fast._

_Yeah. Cape fast. No shit, he had a cape._

_Pretty sure it was a jacket._

_Are you blind? That was a goddamn cape._

_Did you— ugh, whatever. Either way, I like the newbie._

_Agreed. Almost thought he was Bad Boyz until I saw the yellow. Also, you know, the fact that he beat up the other Bad Boyz._

_Yeah. Lung would rip your guts out for wearing yellow. Also he was white, I think._

_Nah, he looked vaguely uh. What’s the word.  
  
Kind of rude to speculate, don’t you think? And **I** still think that was a **she.**_

_Oh yeah, you’re right— on the first, not the second._

_Piss off._

_Anyway— what do you think the name is? We should ask, next time._

_Next time?!_

_Dude, it’s Brockton. There’s always a next time._

Bursts of bright shades painting the midnight skies, fabric and metal gliding through the air, pounding boots on rooftops. These, Brockton knows.

Words of comfort for the assaulted, bandages for the bleeding, carrying the unconscious home. These, Brockton finds new.

Sometimes, it’s fists. Sometimes, it’s sticks. Sometimes, it’s a staff. It changes with the day, but the result is always the same: someone walks away alive, and the others walk home remembering only a circus of colors and a parade of pain.

An idea is nursed and fed within the concrete and steel trap that is Brockton’s heart, and with every pump of streetlights and walk signals, it spreads. It is bright, it is blazing, it is wings and freedom and the power to stand up and say _no more._

This is how it begins:

_Who are you?_

A sharp smile lights up the empty night, and soft laughter cuts through the sordid silence.

_**Isn’t it obvious? I am Robin.** _

* * *

The first one to don the colors does so not out of heroism or horror, but desperation and the kind of hope that you scrape out of the dirt using your fingernails. Criminals have learned to _fear_ the assortment of shades; they will flinch back and wonder if they’re the ones going home with bruises or if they’re not going home at all.

It’s by no means a costume. It’s not even cosplay— it’s what a generous person might call a child’s idea of fashion. A red sweater with a yellow scarf tied around it, a pair of green sweatpants, a homemade mask, a hand-painted _R_ on his chest, sloppy and bright. It’s an atrocity to look at. It’s embarrassing to wear. It’s sweaty and hot and uncomfortable. By the light of day, the only reaction he would get would be laughter. Hell, by the light of a decent streetlight he’d look ridiculous.

But this is Brockton, and her veins run darker than the night itself, and so when Empire comes knocking, they see the colors and they _freeze_. Just for a moment. Just long enough for him to rally the others and get them out of there. And just for a moment—

He is Robin.

He dies a month later from a pair of gangsters who’d gotten wise to his trick. Knives soak the sweater an even brighter shade, and he’s left to die on the street he tried to defend.

It only makes the rumor spread faster.

_I heard that if you wear the colors, they’re afraid._

* * *

Two more die in a far more public fashion. The Empire and the Bad Boyz alike have grown weary of their brightly colored adversary. And so they decide to make an example of those who follow in the footsteps of heroes. So they grab the next one bearing the shades and bring them back to their leaders.

“It’s not the real Robin.” The henchmen say.

“Real Robin wouldn’t have gotten caught.” The grunts mutter.

“I know.” Says Kaiser.

“But she will do.” Lung finishes.

**“Start the recording.”**

“My compatriots,” Announces the emperor,

“My brothers,” the dragon intones.

“A little jackdaw has been scratching at our eyes,”

“Thinking it is an eagle.”

“We shall clip its wings for all to see,”

“And show this city we will not spare children who think they are more than that.”

**“Observe.”**

What happens next is long, and tortuous, and is broadcasted for the world to watch in horror.

And when it is finished, both crime lords allow their people to run amok. There is violence in the streets and blood in the gutters. They remind the city that there are demons among them, and for all of their so-called rules and all of their supposed heroes, there is little that can be done to stop them.

They remind them that civilization ends at night.

The PRT is scrambled and the Protectorate answers with rage but the damage is done and the dead are counted with solemn tones. The cycle continues even as the timer counts down.

  
  


This is the story they tell Brockton:

_You cannot fight us. You will die if you try._

This is the story that Brockton hears:

_You will die either way, so you might as well fight._

* * *

Max Anders is in his office.

Kenta rests on his throne.

Glass shatters. Smoke erupts. For such a brightly feathered bird, they blend into shadows better than you’d believe. The darkness is their father, and they adapt to it as if they had sprung from the night itself. Both men don’t know what’s happening before they are face to face with furiously white eyes, less lenses and more fire molded into glaring slashes of righteous fury.

 _ **I am Robin**. _They hiss, and stretch out their talons. _**You hurt one of my own.**_

Each man stumbles out of his office, yelling obscenities, angry red cuts adorning each face.

“I want Robin _dead!”_ They scream.

The laughter can be heard from every rooftop.

* * *

It’s a meeting of heroes held in a bedroom that’s too small for all of them to sit. They feel less like Robins and more like cuckoos, screaming and imitating a braver bird. They’re colorful enough to be their own mardi-gras parade, but no one is celebrating. The shades of red feel more damning than ever, insides bleeding out.

“I think we need to ask what the hell we’re doing. Going around and protecting other people from the thugs was one thing. Parahumans are another.”

“If we stop, we let them win.”

“They’re already winning! We haven’t accomplished anything meaningful!”

“I think what we do means a _lot_ to the people we save.”

“Who’d die in a few days anyway.”

“Wow, you really gonna be _that_ defeatist asshole?”

“I’m just being realistic! We’re going to _die_ if we keep doing this.”

“You don’t think I know that? That we all know that? We’re gonna die anyway, Miguel. This is Brockton. We could die on the street or the gutter or the gallows, anywhere. But I would rather die trying to do something good than die being too afraid to do anything at all.”

“Amen, sister.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. You’re wearing the colors. That means you— that everyone in this room— believes in Robin. And Robins don’t let each other die. Not without trying to avenge them.”

“Yeah. We need to decide how we’re gonna respond to this.”

“Respond? How can we _respond_ to this? They’ve got fucking superpowers.”

“They do.” They all turn to the window, and see the last of the sun’s light die. It is night, now. But the night does not just belong to the monsters. It has now become Robin’s domain. “But superpowers aren’t everything. Come with me.”

* * *

The flock emerges, and they are all birds of a brightly colored feather.

“Here’s the thing about being Robin.” Says the first. “It’s not easy. You will be scared.”

“You’ll be more than scared,” Snarls the second. “You will die.”

“You’ll be in pain.” States the third. “You will _be_ pain.”

“You’ll be alone.” Sighs the fourth. “ You will fall.”

“You’ll be weak.” Shouts the fifth. “You will fail.”

“You’ll be lost.” Speaks the sixth. “You will lose.”

“But being Robin means that you can rise above all of that. It means taking your fear, your death, your pain, your falls, your failures and your losses...and turning them into power. When you’re Robin, you are the wonder. You are the magic in a child’s eyes. You are freedom and flight.”

“ **I am Robin.** ” They say, voices booming in one multitude. “ **And now, so are you.”**

* * *

Brockton holds its breath, and its ribcage of skyscrapers swells, straining to touch the sky that has embraced the new birds. From her beating heart of boardwalks and shores, to her webbed veins of alleyways and side streets, the word spreads, a rush of new blood coursing through her like a tidal wave crashing against the shore.

“Did you hear? There’s a bunch of kids going around, dressed up like Robin.”

“I heard that too.”

“I also heard that they’re helping people. Fighting off gang members.”

“Brave kids.”

“ _Stupid_ kids.”

“It’s only stupid if they die.”

“Kids are always dying.”  
  
“ _People_ are always dying.”

“True enough.”

“...You think they’d let adults join?”

The city laughs and cries, sparking traffic lights with every color it can. It throws a parade in electrical surges and bursting pipes. It is going to be free. When the monsters come running, Brockton surges, and she finds soft places for her Robins to land, and she bends wire fences and lowers fire escapes for them to run from. She cracks her streets and shimmies water onto the shoes of the enemy, so that they fall and trip and the birds fly from their caging fingers. And the ones who came from so far away thank her— they know her sister city, an impossible distance away and yet so very close she can feel the echo of it reverberating through her steel girders of a skeleton, whispering:

_Take good care of my children._

She is Brockton. She will protect her flock.

* * *

“I’ve _never_ been so busy,” Angelica says in between swigs of coffee, her eyelids weighted with exhaustion even still. “Like, seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many calls come in for captured gang members. I’ve had to start routing to the police because of how many these Robins are catching.”

“I mean, it’s a good thing right?” Her co-worker offers, refilling his own mug. “They’re cleaning up the city. At this rate, they’re gonna have both gangs out of any non-powered members.”

“At this rate, _something_ is gonna explode, and it’s either gonna be the Protectorate or the kids, because someone’s had enough of them. We need to get them to stop.”

“I don’t think people want them to stop, Angelica."  
  
“ _I_ do. I’m tired. I miss my lunch break.”

* * *

“As of last night, we count over a hundred Robins, Director.”

Piggot sighs. She’s losing her city to six goddamn capes and a bunch of teenagers dressed in garish costumes. And the worst thing about it all is that they appear to be _winning._

“And arresting them?”

“The ring leaders keep breaking them out.” Armsmaster grumbles. “We round up a few, arrest them on vigilantism, and then not hours later we go dark and the police wake up with bruises and not a Robin in sight. They’re embarrassing us.”

“They’re embarrassing everyone. _Krieg_ was taken down the other night by the one with the helmet.”

“According to my sources, he’s called Hood.”

“That’s stupid. It’s clearly a helmet.”

“Yes, Director. He’s...audacious. A penchant for using explosives. ”

“Maybe we could hire them.” Piggot half-jokingly muses, pondering the idea. “Get them to soften up the gangs for us.”

“They’re dying, Director.” Armsmaster states.

“Yes, Colin. Aren’t we all?”

There’s a stiffness to him as he requests his orders. Piggot responds with curtness.

“Let the public think we’re opposed to this. But if they want to make our jobs easier, let them.”

“They’re children.” He insists. “They’re going to die.”

“This is Brockton, Colin. They’re going to die either way. They might as well do it on their own terms. Don’t do anything more than we already are to deter them. That’s an order.”

* * *

Farms. To the rest of the world, it is a noun, defined as an area of land and its buildings used for growing crops and rearing animals, typically under the control of one owner or manager.

In Brockton Bay, it means suffering. It means a cage, and a captor, and it means you are livestock in the very literal sense of the word: a commodity to be sold.

The Farm harvests bodies with a scythe made from slicked palms and greed. Lines of flesh tiled and grouted and tossed into baskets to be consumed.

And then everything changes.

The glass shatters and it is the men who cry with fear. It is they who try and limp away, only to find they cannot escape. They can’t see much from their cages but for the first time in months, hope flickers to life, a nearly burnt out wick catching a stray spark and finding the will to burn once more.

Their saviors are all dressed in color, and the one that strides towards them wears it as if he was born into them, his birthright.

“Hey.” He says, and his smile alone could make anyone feel safe. “It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here.”

A woman steps forward, keys jangling. “We’re gonna keep our distance until you feel safe, okay? You can trust us.” The key slides into the lock, but this time, the sound of clicking metal is a wonderful song, not a droning dirge. “The PRT are already en route.” She promises. “But me and the big bird over here are gonna stay with you until they arrive. The rest of us should probably go, though.” The woman gestures, and the rest of them scatter, women and men and children of all ages and races scattering, scrambling up the windows as quickly as they burst through them.

They can’t stop the tears, not sure if they’re from sorrow or joy and finding they don’t have the strength to care.

“Hey.” The man says, crouching down to meet their eyes. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault a monster chose you. All that matters now is that you know that we’re going to make sure that no one hurts you again.”

Even they vanish as the flashing lights close in, but even as the PRT troopers come in, and begin giving them blankets and asking for names they’ve nearly forgotten, the memory of the flock stays with them, and gives them the strength to begin returning home.

* * *

“You know,” says the marksman, somehow finding leftover air in his lungs to speak even as he goes into a dead sprint, leaving fire in his wake, “I kind of miss the old days, you know?”

“How so, Todd?” Says the warrior, fending off an army of ghosts with nothing but a blade. “Surely, the world was a duller place without me.”

“Oh, it certainly was, pipsqueak.” The marksman lands on another roof, pivots and rolls, avoiding a whirling mass of metal screeching and scrambling across the rooftop, leaving deep gouges in the tile. “But I didn’t have to deal with metal-faced fuckers who wouldn’t die if you detonated semtex in their faces, either.”

“Todd,” The warrior sharply intones, diving through a tiny gap in the onslaught, rolling to his feet and impaling another shade, “I believe Nightwing was clear about—”

“Relax, Little D. I know what I’m doing.” The Marksman jumps off the roof. Hookwolf follows, diving towards his prey, seeing an end to a long and painful chase. At that last minute, the Robin wearing nothing but red and black swerves, a grapnel fired mid-fall, the arc swinging up up and around the side of a building, crashing through a window into an abandoned apartment complex.

The apartment complex where Crusader was commanding his ghostly soldiers from.

He doesn’t have time to react before he’s had something attached to his chest, being pulled through the air rapidly towards the Robin, who ducks, allowing the nazi to fly towards the window.

The same window that Hookwolf comes charging through.

Faced with a white man approaching him at painful velocities, Hookwolf is forced to revert to his human form for impact to not become lethal. They hit each other and then the ground, hard enough to hear the crack of bone.

Two gunshots ring out.

“TT.” The warrior announces, swinging in to find the sight of two unconscious supervillains. “A dart gun?”

“Replacement’s idea. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy to put a bullet in both of them, but according to Dickie and Duke this place is a bit more strict on that kind of thing.”

“And Robin’s don’t kill.”

“Cause you’ve _never_ done that.” The Marksman sighs and rubs his neck even as the Warrior glares at him. “We should probably drop these guys off before too long. Not sure how the tranq will interact with their powers. I had to kick the one for the metal fucker to get it all the way through.”

“Indeed.”

“You wanna get chili dogs after this?”

“Your obsession with that ridiculous american food will be your downfall, Todd. We have limited funds here. We must ration.”

“It’s fine. I’ll just steal Replacement’s money.”

“...If he is not vigilant enough to prevent it, I approve.”

“I knew I liked you, pipsqueak.”

“I will eviscerate you with a rusted fork, Todd.”

“Yeah, yeah. Help me with the nazis?”

* * *

“Do you ever feel like we get stuck with the button jobs?” The meta human asks, crawling through the vents.

“Oh, absolutely.” The detective agrees. “We’re the button guys. Pass the screwdriver? There’s a grate up ahead.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. Hitting the button is very fun.” He offers, passing the screwdriver. “But sometimes… I dunno, _I_ wanna be the one punching out the zombie velociraptor ninja from space.”

The detective pauses in his work, turning to stare at his brother with wide lenses.

“Did I miss that one? Have you been having adventures with the Titans without me?”

“Oh, I was using that as an example. I don’t think we’ve had a zombie velociraptor ninja from space. Yet.”

“Oh, good. I would have been sad if I missed a zombie velociraptor ninja from space. Also, we’re in.”

“Say what you will about this Coil fellow,” the metahuman murmurs, dropping to the remarkably clean floor. “He does have very nice air vents.”

“If only other supervillains could be so considerate.” The detective has already found a computer, fingers flying across it. “Dropping in on mobsters while you’ve got dust stains from old vents is embarrassing. And Jason’s intel was right— Fortress Construction definitely is a front. Mr. Chiffre doesn’t exist, he’s just as much of a shell as this place.”

“Mere pseudonym or fake identity?”

“I’d guess just a pseudonym. It’s perfectly legal and a lot less work to manage.”

“So who is our Bond enthusiast?”

“Well, according to these bank account numbers…”

* * *

It is said that whenever opposing forces clash, there is always collateral damage of a violent and unpredictable nature.

**“Do you know who I am?”**

Lung roars,

Kaiser demands,

Coil whispers.

 **“Of course I know who you are.”** The Robins announce.

“You’re the man who cut the rope,” The acrobat snarls,

“You’re the man who pulled the trigger,” The marksman shouts,

“You’re the man who killed my best friend,” The detective hisses,

“You’re the man who beat me every night,” the ghost murmurs,

“You’re the man who made me what I am.” the warrior mutters,

“You’re the man who took them away.” The metahuman declares.

“ **I have known you my whole life. I have fought you every night, and I have won.”**

They fly.

* * *

Their orders are clear and simple: _get my damn city under control._

Miss Militia has defined herself by her service to a country that would hate her if not for her constant vigilance. She follows orders, for good or for ill.

She walks up besides the one known as Red Hood and fires a beanbag shotgun into the back of Alabaster. The white supremacist flickers, his ability to rewind his body back undoing the damage.

She unloads the rest of her rounds while he’s halfway through healing. He stays down, that time.

“I heard you had a nazi infestation?” She offers, swinging around to cover his back.

“Oh yeah.” He slides right into the joke. “Really bad. Little critters are crawling out of the woodwork. How much for an exterminator?”

“Don’t shoot me in the back and you do the paperwork.”

“Deal.”

They light up the twin giants. Kaiser roars with indignation and sends a wave of metal spikes bursting towards them, but Robin dashes down, carving cleanly through the parahuman’s constructs.

“I’ve always wanted to fight nazis.” He says, eagerness to inflict pain radiating so intensely from his small form that all near him take a step back. “And here I thought I’d need to steal Booster’s tech.”

* * *

“You know,” The detective says, vaulting over one soldier and burying his staff in the man’s neck, feeling the bone _crunch_ and whirling as he lands to brain another, “this feels kind of unfair.”

“They have laser guns.” The metahuman responds, cloaking his half of the fight in complete darkness, lashing out with fists and weapons alike. “How is this unfair?”

“Well, they’re really slow with them.” The detective sweeps a leg, grabs and _throws_ the man into his fellows. “Also, really weak. I’m breaking bones without even trying. I think brother bird was right about the lack of powers until recently affecting human evolution.”

“As fascinating as that is, Red Robin, I’d really rather you focus on the task at hand.”

“Will do, Signal.”

* * *

“Are you here to help?” The ghost asks, swinging away from the raging monster to land near a pristine motorcycle. “Or to fight?”

“Both.” Armsmaster says, swinging off his bike, Dauntless landing not moments after. “One question. Do you have powers?”

The ghost tilts her head and then smiles. “No.”  
  
“Then by the strict definition of the law, we officers of the Protectorate are duty bound to protect you.” The halberd comes out, edges blazing with azure light. “So let’s slay the dragon.”

They charge.

Lung, of course, does not give in easily. He is the monster that lurks under the beds of children, he is the one who fought Leviathan to a standstill, he is the ruler of a self-made empire, he is the legends of old brought to the present. He is Orochi, he is Jörmungandr, he is _Lung_.

And—

He—

Just—

Can’t—

Kill—

These—

Robins.

“I will bury you all,” He snarls, swiping at a ghost and only catching mortar and brick. “I will leave your corpses rotting in the street for all those who followed you to see. I will make sure that the name Robin becomes synonymous with _dead._ ”

“Too late.” The ghost murmurs.

“Way too late.” The acrobat chimes in, impossibly vaulting through the smallest gap between the dragon’s claws. “I mean, we’ve all been dead at this point. I give you a solid seven out of ten on the speech, though. The corpse line is a bit worn, but the dragon-speak made it work.”

Lung howls with fury and explodes. The heroes scramble back, just barely avoiding the blast radius.

“All you do is waste my time.” The monster snarls. “I will kill you, eventually. You will tire.”

“Probably.” The acrobat admits. “But where would that leave you?” Before the monster can reply, he brings his fingers to his lips and whistles, a long, clear note.

And then they come.

A sea of red, of green, of yellow. They flood the streets, the rooftops, the buildings. They are a teeming mass of bodies all armed to the teeth with bats and brass knuckles and sticks. They are Brockton Bay, and they have come to drive this dragon from their home.

“You could kill all of us, probably.” The acrobat continues. “Slaughter us all to a man. If you’re lucky, you might even be able to kill whoever they send after you next. And whoever comes after that. And after that. And after that. Until you’ve killed everyone, and you’re the king of an empire of corpses and rubble. And you’ve made yourself a cage out of isolation.”

Lung stares at the little bird. He wants to rage. He wants to burn. He wants to make the streets run red with the blood of Robins.

But the truth cannot be denied.

So he growls for one last moment and he begins to return to humanity. And even as the cuffs slap on and he is taken away, he makes a promise to pluck the feathers from that brave bird’s skin.

* * *

Armsmaster sighs, and watches his nemesis be carted away, almost unwilling to believe it. The other ringleaders show up, dragging their own captures, other members of his team coming with them, bruised and battered but alive.

They had, against all beliefs, won. He can already hear the cheers flooding from the crowd of children and adults alike, and the city itself almost seems to be shaking with joy, free of dragons and emperors and snakes. Brockton breathes clearly for the first time in decades, and there is a lightness to the air that seems to clear the grime from his lungs. The word is already spreading across invisible lines, across the world.

_We won, everybody. Brockton Won._

“I have a lot of questions,” he tells the acrobat. “But most of them will have to wait until we get all of this sorted out. But what am I supposed to call all of you?”

“Haven’t you heard, Armsmaster?”

**We Are Robin.**

**Author's Note:**

> This has been such a deeply personal project to me, and I can't thank all of my lovely friends for encouraging me and beta-reading for it.
> 
> Also, to anyone else who reads this: We are currently hosting a parahuman fanzine! Go to the following link to read the rules and apply to be either an artist or a writer: 
> 
> https://parahumanzine.tumblr.com/


End file.
